Vignettes
by MercedesCarello
Summary: A series of vignettes - drabble-length character studies - for what will hopefully be many of the characters of Downton Abbey in a mix of genres, including future AUs. Individual ratings inside - overall rating may change.
1. Peachy-Keen - Daisy

Rating: K  
Genre: Future AU  
Characters: Daisy

* * *

 **Peachy Keen**

She could feel the rough skin along the folds of her fingers, the sides of her thumb, scrape on the little candy-striped paper bag as she slowly pushed her hand into it – furtively, like the one memory of her mother she'd managed to keep: pushing her hand into that soft linen pocket to see if she had a horse-chestnut from the lower reaches of the garden where she was never allowed to go. She'd been sick then as a girl, practically bedridden, her life so closeted and dull. She felt she'd been sick for so long even well into her adult life, her bed first the kitchens of the Abbey and then the farm of the man she'd come to call father; she'd forgotten how to do anything but to stretch and strain, to claw at the light.

It seemed ridiculous that now, as a forty-something year-old woman, a thing as simple as the tube of lipstick, a faux tortoiseshell as glossy as a horse-chestnut freshly freed from its spiky cradle, would seem so precious, so decadent. But she consoled herself with the fact that just as precious as the chestnut had seemed to her younger self, so too was this allowed to be precious and exciting now. After all, the war was over, and that if nothing else was cause for a small indulgence.

She sniffed the bag it'd come in; it still smelled of the powder and jasmine of the cosmetics counter in Debenhams, and this and the little jagged edges of the bag tickled her nose and reminded her of the dazzling mirrored counters, the gilded handrails on the short steps between departments and the way her shoes clicked on the polished tile. The little receipt she'd been given, with its blue-inked numbers, like bird feet, rustled around inside as though excited for her too. The tube was stood carefully on its foot on her vanity while she carefully folded the bag into quarters and tucked it into her jewelry box for now among the other sparse frivolities and obscure items of sentiment.

Then of course, she returned her attention to the tube itself. Taking it reverently in what she felt to be unworthy, clumsy fingertips – no matter how much she told herself to the contrary – she opened it, and placed the lid carefully back on the whitewashed wood. A twist gently at the base, and the lipstick itself rose into the light, pristine as a candle flame. It was a bold, somewhat dark apricot-coral – the color she imagined tropical flowers to be – matched nothing she owned, and she loved it. They'd named it 'Peachy Keen' and it made her feel flirty without even wearing it; she had no idea if it really would suit her as much as the beautician behind the counter had professed, but she didn't care. It made her smile just to look at it.

She couldn't remember the last time she'd bought herself something frivolous. And on the surface this seemed an unwise purchase – she had no-one to wear it for, much less anywhere to wear it – but she didn't feel the buyer's remorse her normally practical mind had cultured in her. She remembered the feeling of rebelliousness as she'd handed over her note and coins, knowing that instead of putting that money toward the endless list of improvements for the farm, she was spending it on herself, on something she didn't need, on something that gave her joy rather than something that merely tided her over for another day.

Excited as the day she'd received her first Valentine, she twisted her body on her little hard vanity stool and with her free hand, snatched the beauty magazine she'd found discarded behind the chair in the dentist's office a few days ago. She found the page she'd dog-eared and opened it to the double-spread that'd guide her – Rita Hayworth advertising Cover Girl, and an exclusive interview with the rising star Grace Kelly. Placing the magazine flat on her vanity, she peered close in the lamplight and dragged her old folding mirror closer. She studied the delicate bow of their lips, how much more luscious their mouths were compared to hers, and wished she'd listened to the beautician when she talked intimidatingly about lipliner and Vaseline.

 _I'll try my best with what I have,_ she thought, and carefully brought the lipstick near her mouth. She conjured images of the glamorous ladies she'd seen in the films, the pictures, waving her hand a little, trying to copy memories of how she'd seen them apply their own lipstick so expertly, barely looking. It made her heart beat faster – thoughts of ruining the pristineness of it on her silly face flitted through her mind, nearly made her tuck it away and forget the whole thing.

Frowning at herself in her little mirror, she blinked, breathed in deep. _Lady Edith wouldn't be afraid, and certainly not Lady Sybil or Lady Mary. Lady Grantham wouldn't either. So I shan't be afraid. I shan't be afraid of joy._

She tilted her head back and drew her lips taut, pressing the heel of the lipstick to her bottom lip and tugging it testily over the middle. She drew it back, as though afraid, and examined the thumbprint-sized smear she'd made. Encouraged, her hand as poised as when she decorated a cake, she drew over first her bottom lip and then her top lip, using the point of the lipstick to paint the tips of her Cupid's bow, the thinner corners. Carefully, she pressed her lips together and rubbed them ever so slightly, drew the bullet-like tube away to inspect her handiwork.

She smiled at herself. The color brought out the sparkle in her eyes, and reminded her of love. _I shan't be afraid of joy. Happy Birthday, Daisy Mason._


	2. Humpty-Dumpty - Thomas

Rating: K+  
Genre: 'Off-Screen', Character Study  
Characters: Thomas, George Crawley

* * *

 **Humpty-Dumpty**

The boy had an innate sense for where he was, Thomas noticed. He could be in a completely different wing of the house, or even downstairs, and Master George would find him. While reason could never deliver an explanation for the children's attachment to him - Master George in particular - Thomas found himself buoyed up by it in what was otherwise some of the darkest days of his life. He felt the smile creep through his muscles in the way only genuine ones could, and relished its rarity.

"There you are!" Master George called, his little legs hurrying to carry him through the Great Hall.

Thomas paused in his crossing from the parlour, and turned to face him. "Here I am," he said warmly. Already ill thoughts of what he would have to do for the next hour to make himself appear useful were fading. "Have you returned victorious, my liege?" he teased, remembering the boy's quest to capture a castle over breakfast that he had confided in his most trusted squire.

"Yes!" he exclaimed, stuttering to a stop beside him. He beamed up at Thomas. "And now I want to survey my kingdom!"

Thomas smiled indulgently. "Very well then." He hefted Master George onto his back; it'd become almost a twice-daily ritual, now, and he was grateful that this odd turn of events was taking place in his younger years.

A more recent development to the ritual was the inclusion of the nursery rhyme 'Humpty-Dumpty', which Master George had recently learnt from the nanny. As he began the first round of mock-canters, the two of them began to sing:

 _"_ _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,  
_ _Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.  
_ _All the king's horses and all the king's men  
_ _Couldn't put Humpty together again!"_

Over, and over. Around and around the rooms, up and down the carpeted halls. It echoed against every door, trying to get in, and against every window, trying to get out. Thomas could appreciate the irony of this having been a favorite rhyme of his as a child - albeit in darker phrasing - and one whose message had taunted him throughout his life.

It was strange to see it attempt to redeem itself to him years later in the form of a child he'd come to treasure, if he allowed himself to treasure anyone or anything in the purest sense. He wondered whether, if the years were allowed to go on - or even months, even weeks, if he was honest - like this, it would manage the job. Would it completely rewrite the versions he knew?

 _Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,  
_ _Humpty Dumpty had a great fall;  
_ _Threescore men and threescore more,  
_ _Cannot place Humpty Dumpty as he was before._

Could the singing of a child place him as he was before? What even was he, now that he thought about it? Those years as a shadow, a curl of smoke, a snicker to a bitter partner in crime. What had they really been for? To appreciate the light, maybe. To appreciate the air and the weight of trust on one's back, a lack of judgement that he knew he'd struggle to ever find again.

 _Humpty Dumpty lay in a beck.  
_ _With all his sinews around his neck;  
_ _Forty doctors and forty wrights  
_ _Couldn't put Humpty Dumpty to rights!_

He would never be put to rights, he knew. Others had tried. He'd tried. How many falls had there been - or had there only needed to be the one?

Though he was a little out of breath, he laughed when Master George pointed gallantly forward at the staircase. On and up they went, the boy squealing with delight, "Keep going! Keep going!"

He hoped he could. "I can't stop in the middle of a staircase now, can I?" he said instead, readjusting his grip. When they got to the top, the chanting stopped. "Surely _your_ little lungs can't be tired, Master George?"

"Why is Humpty Dumpty an egg?" he asked suddenly.

"Is he?" Thomas responded. "I thought it was supposed to be a riddle?" They trotted down the hall.

"Nanny Richards says he's an egg. He can't be a person."

"Oh?"

"Eggs break but people can be put back together! Grand-Mama said so."

Thomas smiled faintly. "I hope you're right, Master George."


	3. Allow Me to Explain - Robert, Cora

Rating: K  
Genre: Romance  
Characters: Robert, Cora

Originally written for the Tumblr prompt: "You don't even have a clue about the things you do to me."

* * *

 **Allow Me to Explain**

 _You continue regardless,_ Robert thought to himself.

It was not the first time, certainly, that he had lingered at the door on the threshold of her bedroom, finishing some small detail of his own appearance before they went down - finishing so very slowly, all the better to allow her to take her time and insodoing, offer him more to see.

Sometimes she they would speak, sometimes not. At first, in the young years of their marriage the quiet had been awkward and conversation had been a stilted attempt to distract them from what they really should have been talking of. Later, somehow that awkwardness had faded into comfort, and yes - love. Robert mused that it was in fact in the silences that his love for her had grown, much as a seedling would seek out the light. It was only recently that he had realized that about himself - that he required certain distances, certain silences, certain views in order to allow himself to feel. Here at her door was a window into her world, where even the most insignificant detail had garnered such massive significance that he felt he had memorized them exactly, as one would a poem.

He watched her fasten an earring, tap at the pearl dangling from it - such an inconsequential thing to anyone else but to him, it spoke of the reluctance with which she'd seen him off to war, and how she'd tugged at that earring then out of nerves. When she straightened the collar of her blouse at the nape of her neck, he was remembering how he'd kissed it the first night they were wed because he felt he was supposed to but also how, in more recent years, she'd come to like it. When she inspected the line of the rouge on her bottom lip, he was recalling the name of her favorite rose.

These moments, so oft repeated, had compounded one another and condensed to the point that each memory in turn wove together. In whole or in part, they overwhelmed him. It was hard to tell when he truly began to love her. It had snuck up on him, he was sure, but he was merely remembering a fact rather than the feeling. How natural it was now, to be drinking her in in this way. How natural, to be aching.

And yet…how was it, after all these years and now feeling so certain of his love for her, that he felt unsure that she knew? That was the caveat of these silences - his love grew but could he be sure that hers did not diminish? The thing that he so treasured - could he be so sure that it was not starving her?

 _You continue regardless,_ he thought again. _As if I am not here. As if ultimately, it does not matter what I feel or think, because your love will continue regardless. And you are happy with that. Happy with the possibility of my polite, carefully-constructed indifference. You do not have even one clue about the things you do to me._ But how to explain that she was a poem? How to explain a sunrise?

Cora, dear Cora, stood. She moved with a smile through the window of his creating, came to him, and said, "Kiss me."


	4. Just a Touch - Robert, Cora

**Written for the Tumblr Cobert Christmas Fanfic Drabble Exchange 2016, for the dialogue prompt "M** **y chances of living to a ripe old age are, unfortunately, excellent.".**

Rating: K  
Genre: Romance, Family, Seasonal  
Characters: Robert, Cora

* * *

Just a Touch

 _December 1890_

Cora's hum stopped and she retracted her arm from her admittedly rather precarious stretch at the sound of footsteps. As her sleeve snagged and tugged on the spruce's needles the scent settled on her like a steadying hand, reminding her of home. It was comforting in the face of Robert's rather stern expression as he came into the warm light of the Great Hall - though, she supposed, she should consider it a good sign that he had come at all. She smiled at him. A clock somewhere chimed Ten.

"I'm not sure that's something you should be worrying yourself about," he said and came closer, weaving in and out of the boxes of garland and ornaments. He was still dressed from his mother's visit earlier that afternoon.

This was his way of showing concern, she reminded herself. "It's tradition," she smiled more broadly and secured the bauble she held on a closer branch; she'd move it to a better spot later.

"A German one, at that, and one for which we have the staff," Robert insisted. "Please come down."

"German?" she asked as she conceded and stepped down from the ladder.

"If you can believe it, trees were not so popular here until recent decades," he said. "Her Majesty popularized the tradition of her husband's homeland, God rest his soul. Personally I wish there was a less _living_ alternative." He pinched a twig and pulled gently outward, but no needles dislodged. "Quite a bother when they start shedding."

"Oh, Robert," Cora chided.

Even after ten months of marriage she worried that the chide had been a step too far, but he at last rewarded her with a smile. "Isn't it a bit late, anyhow? I don't see why you must trouble yourself. Particularly…"

She followed his eyes to her moderately-swollen belly, adjusted a fold of her gown over it to hang more neatly and in the process, found a stray ornament hook. He helped her remove it from the delicate stitching. "I'm of the belief," she said, "that if you don't do at least some of it yourself, it isn't really yours. And we want it to be ours, don't we? Even if just a touch." She thought of the vastness of Downton, how much of didn't feel remotely hers even after so many months.

It took Robert a few long moments, but eventually he said, "I suppose you're right." He averted his eyes to the huge tree. She imagined he must be thinking of how much more she still had to decorate - and accordingly, how many more nights of this he had to put up with.

To soften the blow of his concession, she remembered the eggnog that had been brought not long ago. She patted his arm with a soft 'oh!' to distract him and moved to the little table on which it'd been set - a single untouched tumbler on a serviette.

"What is it?"

She picked up the half-full tumbler and serviette and brought it to him. "Eggnog - from a family recipe of Mother's. It's an American tradition. Made with sweet cream and eggs, and a little of brandy. I had Mrs Locke prepare it especially." When he still didn't move, she encouraged, "Just try it. You may like it." She could smell the cinnamon and nutmeg from here and wished she could partake, too.

"Well it's not as enjoyable if you cannot have some with me," he glanced again at her belly. At least there was something of a crooked smile there.

She raised the glass between them, wiggled it tauntingly ever so slightly with a mischievous smile. "Then drink on my behalf. It's one of my favorite things about the season." At last he took it. Knowing already how he disliked scrutiny when trying new things, she moved past him to the chair that had been brought for her and sat down. This was as good a time as any, she supposed, to finish the stitching on the ornament she was making.

"Is this…" Robert hesitated. "Forgive me, I do not know much of Jewish tradition at this time of year. Did you celebrate Hanukkah with your parents?"

His interest both surprised and refreshed her. They never talked much about her Jewish heritage, which of course was an extension of the fact that they never talked much about her father. It seemed to fade in importance once their wedding was over. Once Downton was secure. "We had an amiable combination of both," she said. "As I'm sure you can imagine neither of my parents were wont to give up their own traditions - it seemed the only solution!" she chuckled.

"Do you...miss celebrating that aspect of your life?" He sat across from her. The eggnog was half gone.

She rested the needle and thread between index and middle finger on the arm of her chair, looked into the fireplace as she considered. Although it was nice to sit and talk with him in this way, she had to restrain her own scrutiny over the purpose of his inquiry - this could not be a test of any kind, surely, and was simply his unexpected and endearingly awkward way of getting to know her further. There was still much that they were learning about the other, even as husband and wife.

She answered cheerily, "In some ways, yes - in the way that it's natural to miss things from your childhood, that formed you, even if they were not precisely yours."

"Are they not?"

"Not exactly." He was looking at her patiently. "It's hard to explain. You can live with - or in - something your entire life and to all intents and purposes it is yours - it is _you_ \- but in reality, you do not feel ownership of it, no matter how fond of it you are." She paused, wondering if she had revealed too much. Best to keep on topic, she thought. "My father practiced, of course, and we didn't skimp on Hanukkah traditions, but there wasn't as much pressure for me to take part. I could choose. I value that now, of course, but sometimes it does feel a bit as though I should have paid more attention."

"How so?"

She moistened her lips. "The tradition died with my father; I feel part of my identity has gone with him and I have no means to replicate it now, even had I wanted to."

There was silence. Too much sentimentality, she realized, and hurriedly took up her work again. She still wanted to put more detail on the little angel's wings, which would help keep the stuffing in the right place and -

"I did not realize you stitched ornaments. What is it?" Robert said.

The question startled her into pricking her finger and she laughed a little. In between sucking on the tip of her finger to abate the sting, she said, "I don't think I've heard you ask me so many questions in one sitting in some time!" She held the palm-size, white cotton ornament aloft for him to see better. It turned slowly on its red ribbon. "I don't, normally, as you can see. It's meant to be an angel."

"And a very fetching one it is, too."

She smiled, though she was sure he had sad that to be polite. "I just thought…" Her courage faltered.

"Yes?" His eyes were illuminated by the firelight, making their blue paler but brighter.

She felt herself flush a little. "It's silly really," she looked down at her lap.

"Sillier than you climbing a ladder five months pregnant?" he chuckled, which put her at ease again.

The angel rested on its back between her fingers on her belly; its closed eyes and demure smile denoted peace and comfort for a child due in April, the cruelest month. She tidied the brown yarn she'd used for hair with one finger, tugged on the gold-embroidered hem of its robe to straighten the dart. "I thought it would be a nice thing to collect a particular type of ornament for each of our children."

"You intend to do this every year?" Robert asked with the faintest trace of alarm in his voice.

"I always intend to be stitching something, as long as my hands can articulate properly." She sat a little straighter, "Just as I intend to always have a hand in our tree every year. And **my chances of living to a ripe old age are, unfortunately, excellent.** " She went back to work on the wings. "It's only a small thing. I know there is so much we each wish to do, individually, to honor the traditions of our parents. But each new family must have their own unique 'something', musn't they? That's what we'll be soon."

Robert did not respond immediately; when she risked a glance up, though, she realized he had actually finished the eggnog and cradled the empty, milk-glossed tumbler between his fingers in much the same way as she had cradled the angel. He was leaning forward. "I like that idea. Very much," he said, quietly. "A tradition of our own." He reached out hesitantly and took her free hand, squeezed gently.


End file.
